It's Like This
by Min Daae
Summary: Another one of those post-Countdown stories. And this is how it goes.


_Author's (Neurotic) Note_: _So this is pure emotional-reaction wish-fulfillment bullshit contribution to a genre already burgeoning, but fuck me, I wrote seventeen pages of this and I'm not going to let it languish on my hard drive forever and eternity. ...yep. My apologies, in advance._

* * *

"I'll fix this, Peter."

The last words Neal spoke to him, after all the anger had come boiling out of him and he'd only just managed not to make it physical. "I'll fix this, Peter," with his eyes dark and hollow and Peter's heart was thumping in time with her name (E_li_zabeth E_li_zabeth) and all he could say was "Get out of my house."

"I'll fix this, Peter," Neal said, and left.

The night was dreamlike (nightmarelike) and full of questions and desperation, and at three in the morning the call came from the hospital; _sir-we-have-a-woman-here-identified-as-your-wife _and that was all Peter heard before he was running.

She was alive, she was fine (battered and bruised, scared, still sleeping) and he demanded from the orderlies, "Was there anyone here? Did anyone come in with her?" Because it didn't make sense, he was grateful (so grateful) but it didn't make sense.

_No, _came the answer, _but she had a visitor almost immediately afterwards _and Peter demanded tape because he needed to do something, needed to work this out while he waited for El to open her eyes.

He recognized the man they showed him. He stepped in, walked over to Elizabeth, touched her hand lightly, stepped back. Looked over his shoulder once and tapped his fingers against his leg. Then he left. He focused on the tapping, but it wasn't code, wasn't _save me Peter _wasn't anything. Just Neal, that one touch, then gone.

Wasn't this outside Neal's radius? It was, Peter was sure, and he hadn't gotten a call, and-

He dialed Diana. "Get someone to June's," he said curtly. "See if Neal's there."

He wasn't. Tracker and key sat innocently on the table. Next to Neal's phone and consultant ID. "No sign of a struggle," Jones said, simply. And that was it. No struggle. No codes. No note. No Neal. Gone.

_I'll fix this, Peter. _

An hour later, El woke up. She cried, softly, in Peter's arms. "What happened?" She asked, and Peter didn't know what to tell her.

Neal's gone, he didn't say. Just held her.

~.~

Neal's official status was "escaped." "It's just a formality," Diana assured him. She didn't think he'd run. Peter didn't either, if he was honest. It was a good trade, Neal for Elizabeth. Keller would take it. Neal…

Neal would bet just about anything, if he thought he had nothing to lose.

He still hadn't told Elizabeth.

June, Diana reported, had heard nothing. No goodbye, no warning, nothing. June called, and Peter let it go to voicemail as he sat next to El's bed and watched the doctor put her through her neurological paces. He didn't know what he would have said to her.

"Peter," El said after the doctor left. She looked small and strangely fragile in the hospital bed. "Tell Neal it wasn't his fault and to come visit. That's why he's not here, right?"

"El," Peter started to say, and then hesitated. "I'll tell him," he said. When she got home. He'd tell her then. She'd only be upset, and it wasn't her fault. If it was anyone's…Peter was grateful, though. That Neal had done this. If he had done it.

_I'll fix this, Peter._

He couldn't be sorry. He couldn't.

~.~

Peter half expected Neal to be at his house when he brought Elizabeth home. Bruised, maybe, but all smiles and pride that he'd done something right (I'll fix this) and Peter wouldn't forgive him, not just yet. Not when Elizabeth balked on the sidewalk, hesitating as she looked at the door.

"We can go somewhere else," he offered, "A hotel…"

She shook her head and pressed her lips together. "I'm not going to let that man chase me out of my house," she said, and marched up to the door, pale but defiant. He followed after her.

She avoided the kitchen as she went through the rest of the house, Peter close behind her. He looked for notes, for clues, for something left behind that might tell him…

Nothing.

Once she'd gone through the house, Elizabeth took a deep breath and nodded, once. "I'm getting a new security system installed," Peter said. "And if you want me to stay home for a while…"

"I just want things to go back to normal," Elizabeth said, and for the first time her voice shook minutely. "I'll be okay, Peter. Just…catch him."

Peter nodded, and then cleared his throat. It was probably better not to put this off any longer. "El," he said, and then stopped. She looked at him, confused, and he changed his mind. "I will," he said, and pulled her into his arms, taking a deep breath of the smell of her hair.

The rest of his team could look for Neal. He needed to look out for El, because it wasn't only Neal who'd gotten her into this. Mostly, but not only.

~.~

He dreamed about Neal. A trickle of blood down the side of his face as he said _I'll fix this _and turned to walk away, and his feet left bloody footprints on the sidewalk. If it weren't for the dreams about El, that might have been worst.

Peter went back to work because El wanted him to (I just want things back to normal Peter) and the search for Neal went nowhere at all. El was jumpy and easily frightened and trying not to show it, and Peter came home at six-thirty exactly every night no matter what case they were working on.

It took El two days to ask again, and this time less carefully. "Peter," she said, over dinner (back to the wall so she could watch the door), "Why hasn't Neal come by?"

He couldn't keep it from her anymore. He shouldn't have kept it so long. "Neal's gone," he said, simply, as if it didn't (I'll fix this) bother him at all.

El's eyes widened. "What?" Then narrowed. "He didn't-"

"Run?" It would be easy to lie, Peter considered. He wasn't sure himself it wasn't true, maybe Neal had nothing to do with Elizabeth going free, maybe. (He wasn't that stupid.) "No," he said, finally, then, to moderate it, added, "I don't think so."

El got it. He wished she hadn't. Or else wished he'd seen it the way she did, blink and there-it-is what else would he do, what else would Neal have meant, when did Neal ever go through ordinary channels or think clearly or go home and sit quietly when someone he cared about was in danger (never). "Oh," she said, and then more quietly, "Oh."

Peter swallowed. "Keller wanted the treasure," he said, deliberately evenly. "Neal knew where it was. If he hadn't taken it in the first place-"

Her eyes blazed. "Peter, if you're going to-"

"It's his fault you were kidnapped," Peter said fiercely, because it _was _and because anger was easier than the uncomfortable churning helpless feeling he thought he might have to surrender to otherwise. "If Neal hadn't taken the treasure Keller never would have looked at you."

"And that makes it an acceptable trade?" Elizabeth said, and her voice shook slightly. "He deserves this, is that what you're saying?"

"El –"

She sat down, face turned away from him. She was angry, he could tell. "I'm looking for him," Peter said, more quietly. "There's just not much to go on. I don't…I'm angry, but…"

She nodded, stiffly, and didn't answer. Peter's stomach knotted. He sat down next to her and resolutely did not grovel. "I'm just grateful you're here," he said, honestly. "I don't know what I would've done…"

She turned back toward him, lips in a thin line, but her eyes had softened. "I know," she said, more gently. "I know, just…"

"You know Neal," Peter said, grudgingly. "He can slip out of anything."

"I know," El said, but she didn't sound all that sure.

~.~

Peter pulled Neal's phone out of evidence. There were no messages and no missed calls. The contacts had been emptied. Peter felt a little sick. _I don't expect to be coming back, _the phone seemed to say, and was this really it? Was this really how it all ended?

He jumped when the phone rang in his hand. He picked it up in a hurry, demanded, "Who is this?" but the line cut off immediately. The number didn't look familiar. He tried calling it back, but no one picked up.

_Mozzie, _he thought abruptly, and didn't know why he hadn't already heard from him. Except…he had no idea how to get in touch with the man. And Mozzie never liked to talk to him anyway. He liked El…why hadn't he turned up when she was in trouble? Maybe he and Neal had worked something out together, carried it off and they were both gone, out of the country, safe…

No. There would have been a goodbye, somewhere. Something. Wouldn't there?

If they were really running he would never get in touch with either of them. Never know. Neal Caffrey would really be dead, and that would be it.

_I'll fix this, Peter. _

He pocketed Neal's phone and went home early. Neither he nor Elizabeth mentioned Neal's name. Elizabeth woke up crying in the middle of the night and he didn't really know what to do except nurse his anger.

The phone stayed in his coat pocket. Just in case.

~.~

There was no ransom demand. _No point in asking for money for someone no one would pay for, _Peter heard in Neal's voice, and wanted to wince. _And that's not what he wants anyway. _His jaw ached from clenching it so much.

"Where's Mozzie?" Elizabeth asked one evening, and Peter shook his head.

"I don't know. I don't know how to get in touch with him."

"I could try," Elizabeth said, and Peter considered telling her his (hopes) suspicions about Mozzie and Neal on a tropical island somewhere sitting pretty but decided against it. Had his suspicions about the treasure and maybe Neal hadn't taken it, but he'd never said he didn't know who had, and what Neal didn't say was very, very important sometimes. He didn't want to make her angry again. He hesitated, and Elizabeth said, "Just because I'm not FBI doesn't mean I can't help somehow," with a hint of irritation in her voice.

"I know," Peter said, and paused for a moment. "Go ahead. Maybe he knows something."

The number she had for Mozzie, Elizabeth reported, had been canceled. Neal's phone sat silent in Peter's pocket.

~.~

Two weeks and no leads. Peter looked through Neal's apartment himself. He expected June to talk to him, but she didn't, just let him upstairs. She looked older than he remembered without her usual smile.

The apartment looked unchanged, mostly. He checked a couple of the nooks he knew about and found them empty. The wine rack was still full. The bed was made and a sketch of Neal's was on the easel. Peter kept looking, and didn't realize at first that he was searching for a note, a message, something. Something saying _goodbye _or _this is how you find me _or for Christ's sake explaining something, _anything. _

The lack of resolution was getting to him the most. And he kept expecting…

He drove Elizabeth to work every morning and picked her up in the evening so she didn't have to take a cab or the subway. Elizabeth didn't talk to him much about what had happened for the time (however brief) Keller had had her. She did start seeing a therapist, though.

And every so often she insisted on going out to dinner, and Peter pretended he didn't know it was because she didn't want to set foot in the kitchen.

And neither of them talked much about Neal. It was like, Peter mused briefly, he was a ghost, or a shadow. Indelible, invisible. No one mentioned him at work either, but Peter suspected that had more to do with him than anything.

Some days he was angry. Some days he was _furious. _Some days he was just tired. The silence dragged on.

He wondered if he'd ever know what had happened. Dreamed about it sometimes, about Neal saying _ I have to see her, first. Before I go with you. _Eyes hollow, like Peter remembered them. Like he already knew how everything would end. Like he'd always known, maybe.

_You're the only one I really trust. _Neal knew about trust. How rare it was. How valuable.

_I'll fix this, Peter,_ he said, and folded slowly to the ground, eyes staring blankly upwards as somewhere, El screamed as she'd screamed waking the first night and the second and never again after that even when he could see it trembling on her lips.

~.~

Time passed. The active search for Neal was shut down. It was an open case but they had more important things to work on. Other people to catch.

More dangerous. Higher priority. Including Keller himself.

Peter caught himself almost driving to June's a few times in the morning. Automatically. The anger ebbed and flowed, but ebbed more often every day that went by without a sound, a word, anything. _Come on, Neal, _he thought, _send me a postcard, at least. Don't you have the time for that? _

Unless he hadn't run after all, which when Peter was honest he never believed, and then it was two weeks, three that Neal had been (most likely) with Keller, and maybe Keller had the treasure, maybe Neal had known where it was and handed it over, or maybe he hadn't, and either way Peter didn't see Keller letting Neal go out of the goodness of his heart.

Neal and Keller had played their games. Peter didn't think Keller wanted to play anymore.

Neal, he considered seriously, alone, awake, late at night, could be dead. Could be sunk underwater, or buried in an unmarked grave, shot or stabbed or beaten and left to die slowly in a dark corner somewhere where he would never be found, and they would never know…

It was hard to be as angry as he wanted to be when those thoughts crawled into his head and curled up to settle in there. Because he would never know. People vanished every day and were never found. Neal was…Neal, but everybody's luck had to run out sometime. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the end of Neal's line, in silence and mystery (like his beginnings, still so unknown).

El never said it, and they never talked about it, but if he was thinking about it then surely so was she.

He thought about catching Keller sometimes. About Keller laughing in his face when he asked about Neal. _He's long gone, _Keller said. _You gave him up to die. I was actually a little surprised. _

Peter closed his eyes and never cried.

~.~

On November 2nd, Peter opened the door in the morning and found someone curled up against the side of his house. His head lifted slowly, face barely recognizable, smile ghostly.

"Hey," Neal said. "I told you I'd fix it, didn't I?" And slumped sideways, slipping down the side of the house to come to rest with his head on an errant patch of wet.

For a couple seconds Peter didn't move, just stared in disbelief, and then El came out from the living room saying, "Hon, what is it, you're letting the cold in," and he managed to say, "Call an ambulance."

El blinked, and froze for a moment. He moved, finally (took you so long Burke) and Elizabeth saw and said "Oh my god," and went for the phone. Peter checked pulse and breathing and tried to decide whether it would be better to move him or not. His lips were tinted slightly blue and his skin was like ice.

Elizabeth emerged a moment later. "Peter?" she said, her eyes glued to Neal, perfectly still, perfectly vulnerable. He looked at her, helplessly. "Five minutes," she said, and chewed her lip. "A blanket?" She offered, and after a moment Peter just nodded, sitting with him on the porch and thinking about Neal stumbling back to them like a dog left behind come moving day.

His breathing was uneven and raspy, and part of Peter expected every one to be his last, even once the ambulance pulled up and he got shoved out of the way which he allowed because he wasn't really sure what was happening. It was Elizabeth who asked which hospital they were going to, if they could follow after, gave them both her and Peter's numbers for when there was news. Peter hung back, lost and bewildered.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up automatically. "Hey," said Diana, "Everything all right? You're a whole five minutes late," and Peter swallowed and said, "Neal's back."

There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line. The ambulance siren started up and Diana said, "What?"

"On my porch," Peter said dully. "This morning. They're taking him to the hospital."

Diana took a breath through her nose. "I'll tell Hughes you'll be late," she said, and then, "Which hospital?"

~.~

Peter made one brief, aborted attempt to protest that he needed to go to work, which Elizabeth effectively ignored. They ended up in the waiting room of Columbia Presbyterian with the chaos and noise of a busy hospital whirring around them, two still islands and El clutching his hand.

"Peter," she said, "He'll be okay," and he realized that he was the one squeezing, almost too hard. She sounded reassuring. Her expression, when he glanced at her, was less so.

"I should be the one saying that to you," he said, grasping for a smile. She leaned her head sideways onto his shoulder.

It was about a half an hour before Diana and Clinton arrived together and made a beeline for him and Elizabeth. "What happened?" Diana asked, and Peter shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "I was just leaving for work and…there he was."

"Is he going to be all right?" Clinton asked, and Peter shook his head.

"I don't know…" Neal had looked like he was at the end of his rope, but Neal was Neal and had always seemed so indestructible. "Who's been notified?" He asked.

"Hughes," Diana said. "He's probably made some calls by now. No one's coming swooping through the doors, though; if you're here then that makes you supervision."

"Peter," Elizabeth said, and he looked up to find a doctor looking around the room.

"Mr. Burke?" The doctor said when Peter caught his eye, and everyone around him fell silent. "You're here for Mr…" he checked his chart. "Caffrey?"

"Yes," he said, after a moment. Elizabeth cut in, "How is he?" her voice still more strident than his.

The doctor – Peter read _Alistair Turnpike, MD _on his nametag – hesitated for a moment, glanced at Peter, then went on. "Your friend was in pretty bad shape. Badly beaten, and verging on hypothermic. We took him into surgery to repair internal damage, mostly to the liver and kidneys. Once he's stabilized, he'll need at least one more to repair the damage to his hand."

Peter swallowed hard. "Hand?" He asked. Dr. Turnpike looked suitably grim.

"Left hand," he said. "Three fingers badly broken and partially healed." Peter was momentarily lost for words. Elizabeth stepped in.

"What's the prognosis?" She said, and he was reminded of how brave this wife of his was.

"He pulled through the first surgery, and while his core temperature isn't quite what I'd like it to be, it's doing better," the doctor said. "Barring complications, outlook is good. If you don't mind me asking, what happened to him?"

Peter said, "He was kidnapped," and his voice sounded strangely hoarse. "Beyond that, I don't know." El's hand was light on his shoulder. The doctor jotted something down and nodded.

"I'll come and find you when there's more news, and when he can take visitors," he said, and disappeared back through the swinging doors. Everyone outside them was very quiet, and Peter was a little bit grateful, because his thoughts seemed to be buzzing quite audibly.

"Maybe we should go home," he offered to El, "Or…to work, I guess…"

El shook her head. "I'm staying here," she said, and sat down, and so he sat down next to her.

"It'll be okay, Peter," Diana said. "It's a slow day. Jones and I will hold down the fort. Just…make sure to give us updates, okay?"

"I'll call as soon as I hear anything," he promised, and watched them go. Elizabeth wrapped her hand around his and held on. He gave her hand a squeeze. "It's okay," he told her. "It's Neal. He'll be all right."

~.~

They took it in shifts. The first time Neal bobbed to the surface he told the attending nurse, "Tell Peter Keller's dead."

Peter knew this not because he was there, but because they did indeed tell Peter, who held very still. Had Neal, he wondered, and stopped. He hoped not. It would make everything even more complicated than it already was. The Russians, maybe, if they'd caught up to Keller.

He told El, and the visible relief in her "Oh," was a balm for Peter's soul. He wondered if that was why Neal had said it. If he knew how much Elizabeth needed to know that even the specter of her ordeal was gone.

The doctor emerged only a couple hours later to tell him not to bother to stick around, Mr. Caffrey was running a fever, probable infection, better to keep him isolated with his immune system compromised.

Peter went home at six-thirty. El took one look at his face and suggested a movie night with take-out. He loved her very much all over again.

They watched old movies, and if every glimpse of a fedora made his heart clench, well, Peter ignored it. And kept his phone close at hand.

The hospital called the next morning to inform Peter that they were taking Neal in for a second surgery due to "unexpected complications." Peter frowned at the phone for five minutes before putting it back down.

"I have to go into work," he said to Elizabeth, after giving her the news. "I can't just…wait around. And we need to see if Keller's death can be confirmed. And there's a case…"

"You don't need to give excuses to me, Peter," El said, gently. "I gave them my cell number. I'll call you the minute I hear anything."

"Thank you," he said, after a moment, and felt a touch of shame. "It's not that-"

"Peter," El said a little more firmly. "I told you. You don't need to make excuses for me. And you don't need to hold a grudge for my sake."

A John Doe of Keller's description had washed up on the riverbanks that morning. Peter went down to the morgue to confirm the ID. Looking at the corpse, he felt a sudden flash of the thousand times he'd thought about being called down to ID Neal, and almost wobbled with relief that that particular nightmare could pass. Keller was dead. It was over.

He'd made it this far. Surely he'd survive the rest of the way. Dying now would just be contrary. (Would be just like Neal.)

Peter checked his phone. Elizabeth hadn't called.

~.~

The surgery was a 'tentative success.' Neal was 'critical but stable.' Peter was sick of doctor-speak. They let him stand outside the room and watch the even rise and fall of Neal's chest. He looked pale. And so _still. _El held his hand too tightly and said, "Oh, _Peter_," in a tone of voice that almost hurt to hear.

"He'll be fine, El," he said, "He'll be fine, he's made it this far, hasn't he?" and she made a small noise that said he was not being helpful.

"We should," El said, and then stopped. She didn't seem sure where she'd been going with the sentence.

"Maybe you shouldn't be here," Peter said, and half meant that he didn't want to be. After all, there was nothing he could do, and he was still angry. He _was. _Just because Neal was suffering did not mean he was forgiven. Just because he'd traded his life for El's did not absolve his crimes. It _didn't. _

El turned a scathing look on him and he fell quiet, but he could still see the fading bruises on her collarbone when she turned back away, and after a moment he left her alone there. There was paperwork to do at the office.

People at the office walked quietly around him as if they expected an explosion. Peter caught Diana watching him closely.

He focused on his work.

~.~

Neal woke up feverish and disoriented two days later. El was there. Peter wasn't. According to El, he made a wild and entirely pointless bid for freedom, popped three stitches (miraculously not more) and had to be sedated again. When El called him, _she _sounded shaken. Reminded, Peter thought darkly, of her own ordeal.

"You shouldn't be spending so much time there," he said.

"I don't want him to wake up alone. They said his fever is breaking, the antibiotic treatment seemed to work. And they can't work on his hand for another few days, so they're going to let him wake up and have visitors."

"El," he said.

"He saved my life," she said, firmly. "He at least deserves a thanks for that, whatever else he did."

Peter sighed. "I'll go," he said. "Wait. You go home."

He heard El smile through the phone. "Thank you, Peter," she said. "But I want to be here. And I think maybe you should wait. Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired."

Peter couldn't really argue with that.

El came home late. She slipped into bed and snuggled close to him before saying, "Neal wants to see you. He's not very coherent, but he's talking."

"He'd better have a damned good explanation," Peter muttered. Elizabeth shook her head but didn't say anything. "I'll go," he said, after a moment. "Tomorrow. Before work."

Before work, it turned out, Neal was busy with an examination (routine, he was assured, so apparently his expression had shown something he didn't mean it to), so Peter ended up waiting a while and was consequently not in the best of moods when he was shown into Neal's room with the stern command to _keep him calm. _

"El said you wanted to see me," he said, trying not to let his eyes linger on the black and blue color of bruises wherever skin was visible. Neal's eyes were open to slits, which was probably as far as they would open.

"Yeah," Neal said. His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "Wanted to. Keller's dead. Mob. Russian."

"I know," Peter said. Neal's eyes closed and for a moment he thought that was all. They opened again, slowly. He looked very tired and very vulnerable.

"Peter," Neal said. "Did I fix it?"

"You brought El back," Peter said after a moment. "That means a lot. To me. Even if you were stupid about it."

"But not enough," Neal said softly.

"I don't know," Peter said. "I'll do what I can. I'm-"

"Don't - say you're sorry," Neal said, with surprising vehemence. One eye closed, the other remaining barely open. "It's…okay. I'm okay."

Peter sighed. "Neal," he started to say.

"Tell Elizabeth to sleep," Neal said. "She looks…exhausted. Still gorgeous. But exhausted. She'll be okay, right?"

"Yeah, Neal," Peter said. "She'll be okay."

"Good," said Neal. "That's good. You can go now. That was all." His eyelids fluttered back down. Peter felt a little as though there was something else he probably should have said and couldn't come up with it. He left quietly.

~.~

"Neal told me to tell you to sleep," Peter said, calling Elizabeth outside the hospital. "Said you looked tired. He's right, you know."

"He's one to talk." He could almost hear Elizabeth trying to look him over via the phone. "How did it go?"

"Fine," Peter said. Elizabeth was quiet, and Peter sighed. "I shouldn't feel guilty," he said.

"No," Elizabeth agreed. "You shouldn't. But you don't need to be angry either."

"He screwed up," Peter said, angrily. "Badly."

"And I think," Elizabeth said, gently, "That I'd venture a guess that Neal's learned his lesson."

"Just a little late," Peter said, and sighed. "I'd better get to work. We're still trying to sort this mess out. We'll be trying to sort this mess out for years."

"Poor baby," Elizabeth said. "I'll make you dinner tonight, all right? Something grilled."

"I have the best wife," Peter said, and Elizabeth laughed briefly.

"I know this has all been hard on you, hon," she said. "But it'll work out, all right? Remember to breathe."

"I'll see you this evening," Peter said, and glanced back once at the hospital building as he went for the car.

~.~

Hughes informed Peter that as they stood now, they had nothing chargeable on Neal, or at least nothing that would hold up in court. He also informed Peter that he would back Peter's decision if he wanted to terminate Neal's contract, and that he could cite nearly anything as sufficient reason. "Can I think about it?" Peter asked, and Hughes nodded, nudged the papers his way.

"Take as long as you need," he said.

Peter hesitated, and picked up the folder. "What would you do, sir?" He asked, after a moment. "Out of curiosity."

Hughes examined Peter, fiddled with a note pad on his desk. "Caffrey's been good for our clearance rate, I can't deny that. But in this affair…I'd be inclined to terminate the contract. He's always been walking a thin line, and whether we can prove it or not I'd say he's crossed it."

Peter nodded. "Thank you."

"Then again," Hughes added, "I'm not the one who has to work with him."

The office seemed strikingly quiet. Peter caught himself glancing over at Neal's desk more frequently, almost surprised not to find him there. He wondered if Neal would confess to everything Peter suspected him of if asked. Wondered what Neal would do if Peter terminated the contract. Sit quietly in prison for the balance of his original sentence? Slip out and disappear all over again? Precautions would have to be taken, of course, to make sure he even survived. It would be solitary confinement, constant watch…

Neal would hate it. He could practically hear him saying _I'd rather take my chances in gen pop._ And Elizabeth probably wouldn't be happy either.

Peter sighed, and tried to focus on something else, anything else, but his thoughts kept coming around to the same problem.

~.~

The next time he went to see Neal he was a bit more awake, half sitting up and…nothing. Peter'd expected to find him reading, or sketching, but he was just sitting there, very still, eyes fixed somewhere distant that Peter didn't think was the generic print hanging on the wall.

He knocked before coming in, and Neal's head turned slowly to look at Peter. His expression was suspiciously blank. "Hey," Peter said.

"Hey," Neal said. Peter got the impression of something brittle. Neal didn't flash him a smile, not even a false one. His eyes were open, but they looked…dull.

"Feeling all right?" Peter asked, carefully.

"Fine, yeah."

"June come by?"

"No. Out of town."

"Mozzie?" Peter asked, casually. Neal didn't stiffen, exactly, but Peter could almost see the shutters fall.

"Do you have questions for me?"

Peter sighed and sat down. "I don't know," he said. "Should I?"

"I don't know where Mozzie is."

If he hadn't already had his suspicions, that would have answered that question. As it was, Peter shrugged. "I don't know why you would."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Neal's face turned away. "I'm tired," he said, voice strangely flat. "I think I'd like to sleep." Peter felt a surge of anger.

"El's trying to convince me to let this whole thing slide. Hughes thinks I should terminate your contract. You want to give me a reason to do one or the other?"

"No," Neal said. "I don't."

Peter left, fuming.

~.~

He complained to El over dinner (in retrospect, probably a bad idea) and she got that _look _on her face and said, "Peter," sighed, and shook her head.

"What?" he asked, somewhat belligerent.

"I'm not taking sides," she said, slowly. "Because I don't think there really are sides. It's just…if you were Neal. He thinks he's lost you. From what you've said, Mozzie's gone. He and Sara broke up and if June hasn't come in…"

"It's his own fault," Peter said.

"I know," El said. "But miraculously enough, that doesn't actually probably make him feel any better about it."

"He doesn't need to take it out on me."

"No," El said. "He doesn't. But he probably thinks he already knows what's going to happen, and just wants it over."

Peter leaned his elbows on the table and sighed. "What would you do if I sent him back to prison?" he asked. Elizabeth smiled, a little sadly.

"I'd give you a hug and a kiss and tell you I thought you were wrong. And then move on. You're my husband, Peter. I like Neal, I do. But you come first."

~.~

"How long do I have to stay here?" Neal asked the moment Peter appeared in his doorway. His expression was still that curiously blank and brittle mask. Peter blinked.

"What?"

"I need your permission to sign out. They finished up with my hand this morning. How long do I have to stay?"

"In a hurry to go somewhere?" Peter asked, puzzled. Neal still looked awful, he observed. Bruises still black, most of them, though a few were fading to green or yellow. His left hand was encased in a cast.

"Nothing moves forward while I'm here, right?" Neal said. "So let's get moving. I'm sure I'm not the only one who wants this over with." Something in his tone turned sharp around the last sentence. Peter narrowed his eyes, trying to identify it, but gave up on that quickly.

"Neal," Peter said, and stopped. "It's not that simple."

"What's not?"

"I haven't decided-"

"It can't be that hard." That was definitely sharp. Almost harsh. "Just think about-"

"I don't _want _to send you back to prison, Neal!" Peter blurted out, and if Neal looked stunned it didn't, Peter thought, match his own surprise.

"You don't?" Neal said, and sounded so plaintive that it almost stung.

"No," said Peter, with a slight sigh. "I don't." _I just feel like I should. _

"Oh," said Neal, and seemed to go limp. "I'm sorry," he said in a smaller voice.

Peter sighed. "It's fine," he said, eventually. And added, "Never do this again. You shouldn't have – you didn't have to go and get yourself half-killed."

Neal's eyes half closed. "I couldn't think of anything else."

Peter looked out the window. "Thank you," he said, finally. "For getting Elizabeth back. Even if it wasn't…thank you."

"You're welcome," Neal said. And half smiled, a crooked, strange little thing. Peter liked it more for that than the usual flawless Caffrey. "So did I fix it?"

"Not yet," Peter said, and when Neal's face fell slightly, added, "But you still might, kid. You still might."


End file.
